


Slowly but Surely, We...

by YumeNoTsuzuki (Yumejin)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arguments, Auror!Sirius, I sort of jumbled up the timeline to suit my plot, M/M, Murder, Smart!Harry, also I like symmetry in my stories, butchered explanation of forensic science, dark-ish!Harry, early Death Eater days, ooc, power struggles, really bad deductions, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yumejin/pseuds/YumeNoTsuzuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not entirely against the idea of being the Dark Lord’s right hand. A position of power over the masses is always tempting, though having power over Tom is infinitely more enthralling. </p><p>A sequel of sorts to “Suspiciously, Suddenly, I-“.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slowly but Surely, We...

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about my inactivity in the last half a year. I'm in my last year of uni so I've been very busy and on top of that, my muse has abandoned me. This fic is an attempt to get back into writing again. Enjoy.

 

The Death Eaters are far too noisy today. The whole enormous building seems to be bustling with movement and excited voices. Why Abraxas Malfoy had agreed to let the Dark Lord use one of his mansions as Headquarters is still quite beyond Harry’s comprehension. No one sane should want so many idiots gathered in one place for any amount of time.

“Can't you do something about them? They're _your_ incompetent servants. The noise is incessant,” Harry groans from somewhere underneath the thick covers. Only a few seconds later, there is a knock and inevitably, their lazy afternoon in is interrupted.

“My Lord,” Lucius' voice wheezes, just behind the door. He's clearly out of breath and it instantly alerts Tom that everything is not running quite as smoothly as it should be.

“Hide,” he hisses to Harry. The younger wizard doesn't need to be told twice. He hates having to sneak around all the time, but he hates dealing with the 'Death Eaters' even more, so in an instant he's covered head to toe. His clothes are still strewn all over the floor, but, well, it can keep Lucius guessing. He's been _ever_ so curious as to the identity of his Lord's nightly companion... too bad he won't be learning of him any time soon.

“Come in,” Tom replies in the direction of the door, his voice raised slightly in pitch. He seems to think it’s intimidating somehow, but Harry secretly thinks it ridiculous.

“My Lord, Sirius Black is here – he's with the _Minister –_ I could not refuse to invite them inside,” Lucius almost bows apologetically, though remains as stiff as a board. A Malfoy's pride can only allow so much subservience, after all. Tom's features twist in a clearly displeased manner, but he rises from behind his desk, walking right past the bed and past Lucius, leaving swiftly with his servant at his heels and a crack of the closing door.

Harry peeks out from under the covers. The hallway outside seems to be silent once again and though long minutes pass, there is no sign of Tom returning. 

He sighs. Not even one peaceful weekend since the Death Eaters finally revealed themselves to the world. Well, he thinks, it's not entirely unreasonable, but he can't help but be irritated by the constant feeling of being left behind whenever Tom goes out on a 'raid'. His glasses slide down his nose miserably and he sighs again, finally rolling out of the oversized bed. He wriggles into his robes quickly, quietly bemoaning the coldness of the room. It's probably best to leave, retreat to the Potter mansion and get some research done. But something holds him back. The ring which is hiding snugly in his trouser pocket. Taking it out, he inspects the runes which run along the inside and the outside. A sick feeling twists his stomach tightly. _Bound to one,_ it reads. Once, it had been beautiful and fascinating, but now it feels more like a bear trap clasping his hand painfully. Tom has forgotten who he's sharing his bed and his plans with. 

“Can't you do something about him? He's _your_ less than competent auror uncle,” the Dark Lord grumbles, bursting furiously, but gracefully through the door. He has lingered too long. 

“Well _someone's_ got to keep you on your toes,” Harry replies with the face of all seriousness, looking at his lover over the top of his thick framed glasses, feeling the corners of his own lips rise up just a twitch despite his best efforts to remain impassive. “Who knows, maybe he'll even put you in Azkaban one day.” 

Tom watches him carefully, like he isn't sure if he's serious or only jesting to ruffle his composure further. In return, Harry wonders about the same thing, whether eventually something will tip the scales and he will join Tom's side for good, or help Sirius catch the 'Dark Lord' to save his own skin. Either guess is just as likely as the next, considering how much the situation changes with every Death Eater meeting, attack or murder. He's not _entirely_ against the idea of being the Dark Lord’s right hand. A position of power over the masses is always tempting, though having power over _Tom_ is infinitely more enthralling.

“Unlikely,” Tom grinds out tersely from between clenched teeth after a long moment, settling behind a precariously stacked pile of books on his desk.

“If you say so, my Lord,” Harry sneers in return, and then turns to the door. “I'll see myself out.” 

Tom doesn't reply, already absorbed in thinking of plans to counter the Minister's latest endeavour to court him as a political ally.

*

The Potter-Black mansion is commodious and within its walls, Harry's annoyance seems to echo on an infinite loop, blaring back in his own ears. No one is around to complain when he smashes a vase against the wall of the main living room. It's not often that he encounters a problem he cannot solve by thinking about it long enough. It has been five years already, and he has come no closer to making up his mind about Riddle than to cursing the charmed ring to hell. It just keeps on popping back up in his pocket the next day (though, maybe he hadn't really been trying). 

When he had confronted Tom in the library that night, he hadn't yet gauged his own capacity to manipulate and he'd ended up caught in Riddle's web instead. For the first time, he had allowed himself to feel fascination, annoyance, fear, he had let himself _want..._

_And it only went downhill from there._

“Something bothering you Harry?” Sirius' voice startled him. Cursing under his breath, Harry berates himself for the lack of attention to his surroundings. He'd let himself just float along with Tom, without a challenge, without a threat... and in the process, he'd lost his edge.

“It's just.. ugh,” he hides his face in his hands with a loud huff of frustration. Sirius gives him a sympathetic look. It's such a childish thing, but around Sirius, he can let loose, just a little bit. He's known and cared for Harry since he was baby and his parents went off travelling all over the world. They never so much as sent postcards.

“Girl trouble?” his Uncle grins and Harry just lets both his shoulders drop as he returns a dry, deadpan look.

“Not even remotely.”

“Riiight,” Sirius chuckles, but lets the matter drop. “We've finally had some luck today,” he says again after a minute, with a silly grin still on his face. Harry feigns indifference, but straightens in his seat a little, fully attentive.

“There was another raid,” Sirius continues excitedly without a prompt. “We've finally managed to unmask one of them! You'll never guess who it was! Old Crabbe! I’ve always said both Crabbe and Goyle were in with that lot, always following whoever let slip that they hated muggles. And I was fucking right, ha!” Sirius beamed, clearly quite proud of himself like a kid. But meanwhile, Harry's blood ran cold and not just due to the frightening ease with which Sirius spoke of the raids where many people lost their lives.

He'd never understood that enthusiasm for battle from either him or Tom. He knew sometimes drastic actions were necessary, but he could never understand their excitement for it. No, what worried him was that while Crabbe was tough and strong, always ready to help with a fight, he was also a complete and utter idiot. He would crack in a matter of hours at the hands of the Ministry's Auror's and Unspeakabes, or whoever the desperate Minister let do their dirty work. Harry had told Tom countless times to only keep around those Death Eaters who were actually useful, rather than gathering a mob of mindless, bloodthirsty monsters. It could never have ended well.  

Crabbe would tell them everything.

“That's great,” he forced himself to reply when Sirius was clearly expecting some reaction. “So he's going to stand trial soon? I'd like to see that,” he thinks of ways to manipulate Crabbe's mind during the questionings, but then Sirius shakes his head.

“Not this one, I don't think. He's from a far too well connected family and we'd never get a vote to put him in Azkaban as long as half the Wizengamot is in the Malfoy's pockets. He'll probably go straight to the Dementors after questioning. We've got him locked up in our level just now, but it's not ideal as long as there are spies just about everywhere in the bloody department these days.”

“Desperate times,” Harry huffs quietly, nodding at Sirius. He gets it, but it makes everything just that much more complicated. He thinks, _Tom needs to know_. But then he stops himself. He can feel the scales hovering indecisively, but already, most of the weight is on one side. It has probably been for a long time now. 

The Department of Law Enforcement on the second level of the Ministry it was, then.

 *

Tom is sitting in his study, reading a letter with furiously knitted together eyebrows.

“There aren't many Death Eaters around this morning,” a voice muses from somewhere vaguely behind him.

“Harry,” he sighs with some measure of annoyance, turning to see the familiar, shadowy silhouette in between the bookshelves. “Crabbe was caught during yesterday's operation and now Rookwood tells me he had his throat slit during the night,” he says and confusion seeps into his tone sneakily.

“What a convenient coincidence, someone must like you,” Harry quips, sitting down opposite of Tom, and resting his face on his hands. His face is just at the right height to gaze up at Tom's narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“ _Tell me_ ,” Tom demands and Harry's lips part to spill everything, but he fights the words laced with compulsion.

“Don't do this,” the corner of his mouth quivers with annoyance.

“ _You will tell me_ ,” Tom repeats with a sneer, so, so confident.

“I'm not one of your little minions, Tom,” Harry shrugs with disdain and his mouth forms a stubborn, fine line. He wonders what Tom is trying to achieve by forcing him to speak. He wonders what Tom is trying to achieve in the greater scheme of things, if he lets his followers know his identity and leave them to get captured by the Ministry. He wonders why on Earth he'd tried to help the smug bastard. He's been so...

“Infuriating,” Tom breathes, leaning closer to him.

“Exactly,” Harry agrees and gets up quickly, not sure if he can keep from doing something tremendously stupid himself.  “There's something I've been meaning to ask you, actually.”

Tom's annoyance seems to take a backseat for a moment and he waits a moment for Harry to speak.

“Where do you see me in five, ten years?” he asks calmly and the calculating look which used to be ever present in his eyes is back again. “You don't... need to answer that. I honestly don't think you'd even thought that far ahead, other than about what the world will be like with you on top. Maybe you vaguely expected me to follow you wherever you would go. I don't think I can do that, Tom. You manipulated me under your thumb back at school. I didn't have any goals in life, I didn't have anything that could keep my interest... and you exploited that to suit yourself. You almost made me forget that I don't have to go along with everything you do. I've recently realized that what I want...” 

Harry pauses for a moment and his hand travels to his robe pocket to take out the ring that he'd kept since he stole it from the Charms professor all those years ago. Tom's ring.

“...Doesn't matter,” he mutters and places the ring on the table and withdraws a little. “I hope you find what you're looking when you're king of the world.” He cracks a smile and leaves quickly, not looking back at Tom's no doubt dumbfounded face.

 *

He tries to feign indifference to the Death Eater's movements, staying locked up in the Potter-Black manor to work on his book on using martial arts and magic for self defence and duelling. The research is going slowly and he feels like the walls are slowly closing in around his desk, urging him to get out there and do _something._ It's an altogether unfamiliar feeling. Before Tom, before he got swept off his feet by the attention the genius wizard paid him, he never used to feel anything so acutely. Nothing seemed to matter in the long run, so he'd rarely developed interest in anyone, either. But then he'd picked up the trail of the rising Dark Lord and suddenly his world began to spin at full speed. The obsession quickly overshadowed everything else and he'd forgotten how to be himself, merely following along with Tom's ambitions. Being so young and impressionable, he completely fell for the impressive and compelling Dark Lord.

He doesn’t want to be just another follower. Even if he has some privileges, even if Tom occasionally lets his guard down around him, it’s not enough anymore. Is it really so bad, to want to stand by Tom's side as an equal? He doesn’t want to be recognised only for the kill count on raids and for being good in bed. He once had thought that Tom understood and that he wanted him too... before it slowly, surely became obvious that it had all just been a mind game, a challenge to overcome. So it’s better to leave, to forget and sit this one out quietly, not picking sides. 

All that was easier said than done, considering he had used his dad's Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the ministry and killed Crabbe to save Tom's ass. He could only pretend to be impartial, when really; he'd been on Tom's side all along, intentionally or not.

Finally, Hermione is the one who manages to drag him outside. They meet at their regular coffee shop in Muggle London and Harry really wishes he'd stayed at home. Refusing in the first place would have been easier, even though he prefers to avoid confrontation of any sort. So much for keeping to himself and out of emotional drama, he thinks sarcastically. First Tom, now Hermione wants something. He just knows she's onto something, there's that little spark in her eyes like there always had been each time she had learned something new at school. Why she hadn't left him be after graduation, he has no idea, but clearly, she had assumed they became friends at some point and now continues to self-appointedly 'look out for him'. Her insistent prying into his private life really isn't welcome right now.

“Hello Harry,” she says by way of usual greeting, but the feeling... somehow isn’t in it. She sits down opposite him, pulling one of the two steaming drinks towards her.

“Hi,” he returns also less than enthusiastically.

“There's something I need to talk to you about,” she pushes straight to the subject, as bossy as ever. No wonder she never had any real friends all the way through school.

“Have you finally got funding for your muggleborn tracking project? Or the house elf liberation front?” he lets his lip quiver a little with humour.

“No,” Hermione bites back with a lot more force than he'd expected. She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “I just wanted to see if you knew anything about Crabbe senior's murder. I think it's very unusual that a wizard would use a Muggle weapon. Clearly he didn't want anyone to interrogate him but also didn't care enough to set him free... It would be too difficult to get away unnoticed with another person who was injured. He must have _known_ something!”

“Hermione, you're poking your nose where it doesn't belong again. The Ministry doesn't appreciate civilians sniffing around anything that is classified and much less in matters concerning the new Dark Lord. You should stop, now.” He has to admit, he's worried. She might be smart, but she's naïve and has a penchant for risking her life to prove it. She's an idiot. Hermione might not be his friend, but he has known her since they were eleven and that does count for something.

“If there's a new Dark Lord then someone has to catch him and if the Auror's can't-,”

“Then you will?” Harry snorts and chuckles to himself. Hermione glares until his expression flattens again into a mask of indifference. “You said it was a Muggle weapon? There was nothing about that in the Prophet.”

“I... Well,” Hermione blushes a little. “I'm dating Ron Weasley and-,”

“He works in the Department of Law Enforcement? Ah,” Harry smiles at her wryly.

“Would you stop interrupting me? I got him to take me there, to see the body. They hadn't even moved it yet; just cast preservation charms all over the place... It was horrible,” she swallows thickly. Harry feels just a twinge responsible, but he has dealt with worse before. “His throat, it was... “

“How do you know it wasn't simply a well placed cutting hex? That seems far more likely to me.”

“No, the cutting hex, it would have been precise and neat. This wasn't surgical precision nor magic, the killer hadn't had the time to plan ahead and had no prior experience. Probably wasn't expecting how tough cutting a neck would be. He's probably young and not acclimatised to violence,” Hermione is squirming in her seat now, her face green.

“And you know this... how?”

“Before I got my Hogwarts letter... I wanted to be a forensic scientist,” she grins. "A scientist that gathers and analyzes information from bodies to investigate crimes."

"I know what it means," Harry groans, having to always remind her he isn't as ignorant of the Muggle world as the other Purebloods. Their science, in particular, is fascinating.

Harry thinks on it for a moment. It was easier, using a knife. Wizards were, by nature hopeless in the matters not concerning with the supernatural. No one would know how to interpret the cuts made with a mundane weapon. No one would look to check his DNA or try to find a match for the knife. But most importantly, all magic leaves traces. Subtle and visible only to those who know how to interpret them, but Harry knew of at least three individuals capable of identifying a person by their unique brand of magic. It was safer not to use it. Even if someone decided to look into it closely, no Pureblood like him could fall under suspicion. Physical violence, among wizards, was exceedingly rare – why dirty your hands if you can send your house elf or use a wand?

No, the odds of anyone making the connection – even Tom, were close to nonexistent. But Hermione, she was clever – reading all those books, having lived in the Muggle world, keeping up with the news? He had underestimated her and now, she was too close to the truth. Just one stray thought away.

“So you're talking to me... why?” he tries to sound bored, not betraying the inner turmoil beginning to stir within him. Hermione can't find out.

“Well, I thought you might know something more, since your uncle is one of the Aurors who captured him.”

“No, he hasn't said much else than hoping he can bag Severus Snape next and get a promotion,” Harry lies smoothly. His Uncle had even shown Harry a memory of the fight and how he'd managed to land curses on several of the Death Eaters.

“Oh...” Hermione's gaze drops. “Then, maybe you know someone who would be likely to use Muggle weapons?”

“That question is a long shot at best, there are hundreds of wizards in London and many of them could have motivations to kill Crabbe Sr. My first thought was that it would have been a Pureblood who supports the new Dark Lord and knew that Crabbe would spill some sort of a secret of theirs. But if you say it was a knife, it's far more likely it was a Muggleborn, but I couldn't guess why.” He tries to lead her off his trail gently. Just steer her thoughts away.

“I don't know,” she sighs. “A Pureblood would have a lot more reasons to want him dead.”

“He's openly anti-muggle and anti-muggleborn,” Harry challenges with a small twitch of his eyebrow.

“Still, I just have a feeling...”

“Harry!” A familiar voice calls from not far off in a forcefully cheerful manner. Harry clenches his fists into balls under the table, internally groaning.

“Riddle,” he turns to see Tom standing next to their table. “What a completely random coincidence.”

“You're still keeping in contact with him, Harry?” Hermione narrows her eyes suspiciously again. “I thought...”

“You thought right, there is nothing between us anymore,” Harry makes it painfully clear, looking right at Tom challengingly. The Dark Lord never had quite forgiven Hermione for accidentally walking in on them in the Library one night. Since then, she had been constantly questioning the nature of their acquaintance and later, relationship.

“And there I thought we could be civil around each other,” Tom mock-smiles. He never had any intention of being polite. He'd been waiting for Harry to leave the safety of the wards on his manor and finally got his chance for a confrontation. Waiting to pounce on his pray, that was Tom though and through.

“It was you,” Hermione's voice quivers. “You still love him.”

“What?” Harry actually has to blink twice and shake his head. “Where ever did you get that ridiculous idea?”

“He's the only one you've ever cared about, even when he went around school gathering followers. I had thought it might have been him all along and... and I know you have a collection of Muggle weapons 'for study'.” It’s apparent she has made the connection now, the realisation manifesting as a painful twist of her lips into a small, frowning line. “You killed Crabbe to protect that ungrateful, cold hearted asshole,” she struggles to maintain her composure, but Harry can see the wand now pointing at him. “Turn yourself in, Harry. Please,” she says through tears now forming in the corners of her eyes. The grip on her wand is tight but wavering.

“Hermione, put the wand do-,”

“How uncouth, mudblood,” Tom's wand is out and he is pointing it to Hermione's neck frighteningly close. “Resorting to insults.”

He looks up to Harry and there's that question, the intrigue that he had witnessed once before. Tom has finally remembered him.

“Avada Kedavra,” Harry says quickly and the green beam hits Hermione right in the chest. There is a pang of panic, guilt and disgust, but quickly Harry recognises the victory for what it is.

“I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Tom.”

“Voldemort,” Tom interjects tersely. They've had this argument many times before.

“Whatever,” Harry shrugs and gets up, his whole body tense with annoyance. “If you're just here to be stubborn and uncooperative, I shall take my leave.” He turns to walk right past Tom, but suddenly a strong grip on his arm stops him.

“Join me,” Tom asks. Doesn't order. Just asks. 

Harry is lost for a moment. Tom's eyes are a little bit softer and his voice could almost be pleading. He'd never expected... but it doesn’t matter. He pulls away.

“Not the Death Eaters,” the Dark Lord clarifies. “Join _me._ ”

Harry understands. _Join me. I need you, I want you by my side._ All the words Tom could never say aloud. He is finally able to accept their relationship for what it could be if they both tried just a little harder. But that goes both ways. Tom..Voldemort, is looking at him calmly, but there is an undercurrent of impatience, worry and fear lurking beneath the façade. Harry should know best, that despite their masks of indifference, the two of them experience the world more acutely than anyone else. There are so many different feelings, so many ways for people to hurt you, that there is little choice than to hide and protect yourself to survive. 

“I will consider that an apology,” he gives Voldemort a genuine smile. “And I will consider that apology.”

Their hands meet tentatively and finally, the world comes back into focus. There is chaos, Muggles are screaming and running away. Hermione’s limp body hangs in the chair.

“Should we Obliviate the poor fools?” Harry risks cracking a grin and squeezes Voldemort's hand just a little tighter.

“Already ahead of you,” Voldemort returns the smile easily this time and everything around them falls silent again as Muggles freeze mid-motion, their minds shutting down momentarily in confusion.

“You never cease to fascinate me,” Harry places a kiss on his lover's lips to seal the deal. It feels more significant than all the years they had spent meaninglessly fucking.

“The sentiment is returned, I assure you,” Voldemort murmurs in return and they begin to make their way out of the coffee shop. Finally, he accepts what he sees. Finally, he knows what Harry had wanted him to understand and why he had given him the ring back. He doesn't need to subjugate Harry or order him around to make him stay. He's strong and capable of impossible things... a leader in his own nature, an untameable wild card. The only one who could freely choose to stand beside him when he conquered the world. 


End file.
